


whiskey whispers

by professortennant



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Fluff, Smut, drunk!Lucien, drunk!jean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-01 05:05:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12149223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: This wasn’t like Jean at all. He opened his mouth to push further, but the song on the radio changed--something upbeat and fast and Jean’s eyes widened, excited. Untangling herself from him arms, she stepped back, finishing off the last bit of whiskey in her glass, and she began to dance. Her hips swayed softly, head tilted back and eyes closed.





	1. Chapter 1

Jean Beazley did not turn to alcohol often. No, not when there was so much that required her undivided attention and especially not when Lucien drank enough for the both of them. 

But she was leaving for Adelaide in a few days; Lucien could not look at her for more than a few moments at a time--always looking like he was biting his tongue and leaving things unsaid; and she was leaving behind her home and her family. And Lucien. 

It was this thought that drove her to the bottle tonight. The house was quiet, with all of the residents out and about. Lucien and Charlie working late on a case and Mattie visiting her parents for the weekend. 

Settling down on the squishy couch in the living room with a heavy heart, she brought the fire in the grate roaring to life, and with a satisfying pop, the bottle of sherry was opened and the first glass poured. And then the second. And then the third...

An hour or so later, Lucien walked in the door. It was quite late and he was ready to make his apologies to Jean in the morning, knowing he should have called and told her he would be in late. He knew she worried and fussed over him.

To his surprise, as he stepped into the foyer, he saw the living room light on and the soft sounds of some jazz melody pouring from the radio. It wasn’t like Jean to be up this late. 

Rounding the corner, Lucien saw to his surprise Jean laid out on the couch, eyes closed and humming softly to herself, foot bouncing along in time with the trumpet. 

An empty bottle of sherry was standing on the side table and from what he could see, she had rummaged through his desk’s drawers to find his good bottle of scotch. 

“Jean?”

Jean’s eyes flew open and she struggled to sit up, the whiskey in her tumbler sloshing up the sides as she threw a sloppy grin his way. “Lucien! You’re home!”

Her words were slurred and her eyes unfocused. She stood up and made her way over to him, tripping over the rug and giggling. “Whoopsies!”

Lucien stepped forward to steady her, eyeing her flushed cheeks with amusement. “What’s all this then?”

Jean smiled at him, shrugging. “Taking a leaf out of your book, Lucien. If you drink enough, you can’t feel anything anymore. This is great, I don’t know why I don’t do this more often.”

Lucien furrowed his brow, confused. This wasn’t like Jean at all. He opened his mouth to push further, but the song on the radio changed--something upbeat and fast and Jean’s eyes widened, excited. Untangling herself from him arms, she stepped back, finishing off the last bit of whiskey in her glass, and she began to dance. Her hips swayed softly, head tilted back and eyes closed. 

“Dance with me, Lucien.”

Utterly bewildered, Lucien could only look on, taking in the way the firelight danced upon her skin, the way her bare feet sunk into the rug. Had he ever seen her bare feet before? It felt strangely intimate to know that her toenails were painted a deep red. 

He stepped forward, taking the glass from her hand before she lost her grip on it and it came shattering down onto the ground. Something was terribly wrong for Jean to be drinking like this and she was even more far gone than he thought if she was inviting him to dance in the living room.

He switched the radio off and turned to look at her, waiting. No matter how much he wanted to take her into his arms and do as she commanded and dance with her, she needed to sleep this off. They would talk in the morning.

Jean, on the other hand, did not appreciate Lucien’s actions. She turned on her heel, stumbling only slightly, hands on her hips and glared at him. 

“Lucien Blake, you turn that radio back on right now. And while you’re at it, you can pour me another drink. I’m not done yet.”

Lucien merely raised his eyebrows at her. “I think you are done, Jean. It’s quite late and you seem to have had quite enough. Now come on, it’s time for bed.” 

He offered her his hand, intending to lead her upstairs and put her straight to bed, but she ignored it, rolling her eyes. “Oh, so it’s alright if you drink yourself into a stupor and stay up half the night banging on that bloody piano, but I can’t have a sherry or two and dance in the living room?”

Before he could get a word in, she continued on, apparently having him in front of her seemed to have opened some sort of floodgate.

“And why do you care if I drink in the living room, eh? Suddenly you care what I do or don’t do? I’m leaving tomorrow, Lucien. Leaving. And you, you--”

The fight seemed to go out of her as quickly as it came. Tears sprung to her eyes and she covered her mouth with a shaking hand. “And you don’t seem to bloody care.” She looked at him, eyes full of hurt.

“Why don’t you care, Lucien? Leaving this house, my home--leaving you--is unbearable. And you,” she finishes bitterly. “You say ‘Goodnight, Jean.’ As if you couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”

She swayed on the spot and Lucien stood quickly, crossing the room to steady her. Jean attempted to push him away, to hold up her hands and keep him from touching her. If he touched her, if she felt his hands on her skin, she wasn’t sure she would be able to control herself. 

The alcohol was rushing to her head and making her lips loose. “No, Lucien, please.”

But Lucien wasn’t having it. His arms wrapped around her waist, tugging her into a hug. He smoothed a hand over her curls--loose and imperfect. She sniffled into his chest. 

Lucien wanted to tell her how wrong she was, how much he cared, how much he still had to say to her. The words were on the tip of his tongue, he just needed to find the right words. This was too important to get wrong. 

Before the words could come, Jean was speaking again, her words muffled into his shirt. “Lucien?”

“Yes, love?” He winced, hoping she was not offended by the endearment. 

“I think I’m drunk.” She sounded absolutely miserable and Lucien was tempted to laugh. His Jean was quite the lightweight and her emotions seemed to be whiplashing from one end of the spectrum to the other. 

“I think you are, too, my dear. C’mon, let’s get you up to bed, yeah?”

He felt her nod against his chest and he kept her curled against his side, leading her up the stairs. How many times had she done this for him? Tucked him into bed and cared for him at his most vulnerable. 

Finally reaching her bedroom, he laid her down on the bed, tucking the blanket in around her. She snuggled into the pillow with a sigh. He hushed and hummed at her, easing her into sleep. Noticing the many pins in her hair, he took a seat on the mattress next to her and began to gently untangle each pin from her hair. He suspected leaving those in overnight would not help with what was sure to be a massive headache. 

Jean’s nose crinkled as he set to work and her eyes peeped open. “Lucien?”

He ran his fingers across her cheek softly, “I’m here. Sleep, Jean.”

She nodded and sighed, nuzzling into his touch. Lucien was awestruck. Jean’s lowered inhibitions rendered her so soft, so affectionate, so honest. Part of his heart was still downstairs, mulling over her drunken confession. 

“Lucien?”

He smiled. “Yes, Jean?”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

His heart clenched in his chest, aching with the weight of his love for her. He had to tell her everything. But not now. Tomorrow morning. When she would remember. 

Untangling the last of the pins from her hair, Lucien set the collection of pins down on her bedside table. Jean’s breath was evening out and from experience, he knew a very deep sleep was not far behind her. 

Lucien smoothed a curl off of her forehead and pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek. “I don’t want you to leave, either.” Another sweep of his fingers over her cheek (he marveled at the softness of her skin). “We’ll talk in the morning, love, I promise you.”

Soft snores answered him and he smiled softly, standing up and rearranging her blankets, ensuring she wouldn’t be cold during the night. He flicked off the flight and closed her bedroom door with one last look at Jean passed out on the bed. 

Lucien knew from that moment on that he would absolutely be drinking with Jean Beazley more often, if he could help it.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite the concerns from just about everyone in his life, Lucien Blake was a man who could hold his liquor and who knew his limits. 

Most of the time, anyway. 

Tonight was, perhaps, not one of those times.

Sitting in his study, Lucien swirled the last swig of whiskey at the bottom of his glass, pensive and tense. 

He hated cases that involved children. It always left him feeling too raw, too vulnerable, too desperate. He couldn’t see the victim; only his daughter. And each passing moment he couldn’t connect the dots, it was another failure to add to the books. But the whiskey dulled the ache and let his mind slowly stop spinning, let him rest. 

Leaning back in his study’s chair, he threw the last of the whiskey back and grimaced as it burned down his throat. With a glance at the bottle on his desk, he saw it was empty. 

Heaving himself up out of the chair, he crossed the room to his bar cart and reached for the next bottle of whiskey. Only there was not another bottle available. Confused, he knelt down, rummaging through the back cupboards of the cart, certain he had just restocked the cart a few days ago. 

Whatever his drinking habits may be, they certainly weren’t disastrous enough to go through 3 bottles of whiskey in less than 3 days. But a thorough search of his study proved fruitless. 

No whiskey. No vodka. Not even bloody amaretto. 

Jean. 

Charlie wouldn’t dare take such drastic measures to curb his drinking, no he wouldn’t dare. But Jean? Absolutely. 

He didn’t know what she’d done, but he knew without a doubt she was involved somehow. Making his way out of the study and up the stairs (stumbling over one or two of the steps, perhaps), Lucien realized how very late it was and how very inappropriate confronting her at this late hour would be. 

But she’d touched his whiskey. Hidden his whiskey from him in his own home. 

Coming to a stop outside her door, he also realized how drunk he actually was. But that didn’t stop him. He could see the light bleeding out into the hallway from under her bedroom door and knew she was awake.

He wrapped his knuckles on her door, “Jean? Jean! Jean! Jean?”

And then the door was swinging open fast and she stood before him, wrapped up in her pink robe, feet bare, and a look of defiance on her face. 

“Lucien, it is 11 o’clock at night! What on earth could you possibly--”

But Lucien was already pushing his way inside her bedroom, turning and wagging an accusing finger at her. “You hid my whiskey!”

Jean crossed her arms and glared. “Yes I did.”

His jaw dropped, surprised at her frank admission. “You don’t even try and deny it? Jean, I just bought that whiskey 3 days ago!”

She nodded, “That’s right. And you’ve enjoyed quite enough of it, I do believe. At least until tomorrow night.”

Shaking his head at her audacity, he took a step closer to her. “Where is it, Jean?” His voice was low and husky. He just needed one more drink, one more drink to completely pass out and dull everything to a manageable roar and then he would leave her. 

But Jean, his wonderful, wonderful, Jean held her ground, arms still firmly crossed across her chest. “No, Lucien.”

“Jean...” His voice was not threatening, but perhaps held a bit of warning in it. He was a grown man, after all. He didn’t need someone monitoring his intake like a naughty school boy. 

Another step towards her brought them almost toe-to-toe. Jean tipped her chin up and looked him in the eye. “You don’t scare me, Lucien. And you’ve had enough.” Her expression softening, she reached out to place a hand on his arm. 

“Please, Lucien. Just tonight, that’s enough. I’m not doing this to hurt or humiliate you. I’m doing this because I,” she rubbed her thumb over his forearm absentmindedly. “I’m doing this because I care about you.”

Lucien savored the feel of her hand on his arm, the concern in her voice. How long had it been since he had felt this well-cared for? How long had it been since his well-being was someone’s priority? 

He sighed, the fight gone out of him. “I know you do, Jean.”

And then the entirety of the situation caught up to him: drunk, barging into her bedroom late at night, her in her nightgown and he in nothing more than a half-unbuttoned shirt. 

Horrified, he began stuttering apologies. “I should leave you. I promise you, this won’t happen again. I am so sorry, Jean.” He moved to leave her bedroom, but there was still quite a bit of whiskey in his bloodstream and the connection between feet and brain weren’t as sharp as they were when he was sober. 

He tripped over his own feet and fell into the wall. 

“Lucien!” Jean rushed to him, placing a steadying hand on his arm and back. 

“I’m alright, Jean. Just need to get to bed.” Jean noted his voice was considerably more sluggish, more slurred. The adrenaline of a pending confrontation now worn off, he seemed to be returning to a slightly tipsier state. 

Sighing softly, she looped his arm around her shoulders and neck and took on his weight, leading him to his bedroom. And then the babbling began. 

“I don’t drink like this because I want to, Jean. I have to do it. It helps with all of this.” He gestured wildly at his entire self, from head to toe. “It helps with the nightmares.”

The last part was whispered so softly, Jean wasn’t sure he meant to say it. Her heart ached. She knew Lucien suffered nightmares, had heard his moans and yells through the walls of the house. But she didn’t know he had come to rely on whiskey for the precise reason to dull those memories. She had so much to learn about him still.

Finally arriving at his bedroom, she laid him down on the bed and considered his attire for a second before resolving herself. She wouldn’t let him go to bed uncomfortable. Lucien was still mumbling to himself and Jean hummed and ahhed in agreement when necessary to let him know she was still listening.

Then, engaging in the type of quiet intimacy she always associated with marriage, she unlaced his shoes and tugged them off. Then she pulled his socks off. Removed his cufflinks. Steeling herself, she finished unbuttoning his half-opened shirt and felt her cheeks grow hot. 

He was wearing a singlet beneath the shirt, but it didn’t do much to hide his physique and Jean wasn’t a saint. She took in his wide chest and muscled arms and then scolded herself for lingering. 

Lucien grabbed her wrist, stopping her from finishing the last few buttons. She looked at him, startled, and ready to apologize for overstepping her boundaries. 

But Lucien was looking at her like she hung the moon. “You help the nightmares, too, Jean.”

“W-what?” She reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed, tucking him in as best as she could.

Sighing to himself, he pushed his head back into the pillow, now content. “Ever since moving here, the nightmares haven’t been so bad.” His words were slurring again, partly from drink and partly from exhaustion. “S’nice having you close. I know you’ll be there if I need you. Jean...my Jean...”

She watched his eyes drift close and tried not to dwell too hard on his word. My Jean he had said. Looking at him, her own personal disaster, Jean smoothed her hand over his hair and pressed a single, chaste kiss to his forehead. 

One day, she would tell him just how much she truly was his. But not tonight.

With another glance back at her doctor, she turned the lights out and closed the door. She promised to keep an ear out for his calls, ready to fight his nightmares for him.


	3. Chapter 3

The sunlight streamed through the bedroom window; the bright rays slowly warming the bare skin of the beds inhabitants. The sleeping pair were wrapped up in each other, their legs tangled in the soft sheets. 

Last night marked their one year wedding anniversary and Lucien had gone all out for Jean: the Colonists’ Club rented out just for the two of them, a 4-course meal that ended in the most decadent chocolate dessert either of them had had (and Lucien could still hear Jean’s moans of delight ringing in his ear as she had her first bite), and the finest bottle of champagne. And then, perhaps at his own insistence, another bottle of champagne after the first. 

The finest in Ballarat for his wife.

His wife. 

Lucien’s eyes opened at the insistence of the sun and he buried his nose into Jean’s hair, his arm tightening around her waist. This was one of his favorite parts of sharing a bed with Jean: the feel of her body pressed against his, spooning her from behind. Pressed together like this, he felt as though he could protect her from anything and keep the harsh outside world from closing in around them. 

In his arms, Jean stirred, eyes flickering open before groaning, turning her head into the pillow. On the best of days Jean wasn’t a morning person. She needed coaxing out of bed, a trail of kisses down her neck to awaken her and then an incentive to leave bed (Lucien’s calls to join her in the shower often worked). 

But this morning, with a bottle’s worth of champagne and wine working its way out of her system, she was positively grouchy. 

“Morning, love.” He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. “How do you feel?”

Eyes still closed, Jean just groaned and Lucien smothered a laugh into her skin. She half-heartedly swatted at him. “Don’t be smug, Lucien. We don’t all have your tolerance.”

He hummed in acknowledgment. “If I remember correctly, dear, you weren’t complaining about my tolerance last night.”

“That was last night. This is this morning and I have a raging headache.”

Rolling them over so Jean was below him, Lucien propped himself up over her on an elbow and kissed her cheek. “Well, I am a doctor, Jean.” A kiss to her other cheek. “And I happen to know an excellent headache cure.” A kiss to the tip of her nose. “A miracle cure, really.”

Lucien watched as Jean’s frown slowly morphed into a smile with each kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tugging him down for a proper kiss. “Well, I better let the doctor do his work then.”

Dipping his head, he slanted his mouth over hers, swallowing her groan of pleasure at the feel of his body pressing hers down into the mattress. His tongue laved over her lips and explored her mouth, the kiss easing off with a playful nip at her bottom lip. 

Pulling away, Lucien smoothed Jean’s curls away from her forehead. “The first step is to gently soothe the ache.” 

He pressed a kiss to her temple, trailing his lips over her forehead, and pressing another kiss to her other temple. His fingertips rubbed small circles at each temple, his hips grinding against her in time with his motions. 

Jean gasped and arched up. “This is just the first step?” 

Lucien nodded. “Oh yes, this is a very, very involved process. It’s why so few doctors know of it.” Trailing his hand down the side of her face, he continued, “The next step is to help, uh, stimulate blood flow throughout the body. Really get the bodies natural anti-inflammatories circulating.”

Jean rolled her eyes, but played along. “Oh?”

“Like this, love.” He moved himself over her, hands now busy exploring her body, impatiently pushing up at her nightgown. Jean obliged him by coming up on her elbows and tugging the nightgown up and over her head before laying back down and watching her husband touch her.

His hands splayed over her breasts, palming and squeezing them, waiting in anticipation as her nipples hardened and she pushed herself up into his touch with a sigh. Lucien loved watching his wife’s body react to his touch. It touched something primal inside of him, urging him to please her, to make her happy. 

Lucien dipped his head and licked a stripe over her nipple while he tweaked and pulled the other. Jean gasped out his name, her legs tightening around him. “Lucien!”

He would never tire of hearing his name fall from her lips. 

“We’re not done yet, Jean.”

With another squeeze of her breast, he moved further down her body, pressing a line of kisses from her sternum down her her abdomen (stopping to kiss her ribs, his teeth grazing over the sensitive skin). Finally, he reached the apex of her thighs and lowered his head to nuzzle at her curls--damp with want. Want for him.

He ran his tongue over her folds, tongue darting over her wetness and his fingers slipping inside of her, pumping in and out slowly.

Each touch drew a breathy moan from his wife and each moan went straight to his groin. He pressed his erection into the mattress, staving off his own orgasm. He wanted Jean to come first. 

It wouldn’t do if he came now, not when his wife was chanting his name and writhing beneath him. Jean’s hands moved restlessly from his shoulders to threading her fingers through his hair, tugging at him to guide his mouth exactly where she wanted. 

She held his head over her clit and he licked and sucked at the bundle of nerves, licking Jean into a frenzy as she cried out, “Lucien!,” and tumbled over the edge, finding her own orgasm. 

Lucien looked up at her from between her legs, hair a wreck, mouth glistening, and eyes dark. Jean never felt as powerful as she did when he was between her legs. Her eyes ran lovingly over his expression.

This man was her husband. Her husband. Mouth dry, she tugged at his shoulders, “Lucien, enough games, I want you. Please.”

Nodding, Lucien covered her body with his, big hands trailing over the smooth curve of her legs, encouraging them to drop open and allow him to settle between her legs more comfortably. Reaching between their bodies and grasping his erection, he guided himself inside of her, and they both sighed at the feeling. 

She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles and pulling him deeper inside her. “Oh Lucien...Yes.”

A year of marriage. A year of lovemaking. And they both still felt the thrill of sex as if it were their first time all over again. Lucien moved inside of her, pumping in and out, his thrusts starting off slow and steady. He wanted to work Jean into a frenzy, wanted her to leave scratches down his back and wanted to hear her cry out his name.

Jean obliged his wishes. She grasped at his shoulders, fingers digging in his skin and leaving a trail of red marks. Jean knew Lucien enjoyed this element of pain, not only in the heat of the moment, but later in the day, long after their lovemaking was over and he felt the sting of her touch through his suit. 

“Jean, love, are you--”

But his Jean was ahead of him. “Yes! Please, please...” 

He hushed her, “Together, Jean. Together.”

Lucien picked up the tempo of his thrusts and the feelings of pleasure crashed over them. Jean cried out and her body tensed as she came again. Lucien buried his head into her shoulder and muffled his groan as he spilled himself inside her. 

They lay there for a few moments, Jean absentmindedly petting his hair and Lucien pressing lazy kisses to any part of exposed skin he could reach. In the early days of their marriage, Lucien would immediately roll off of her, terrified the weight of him would crush her. 

Instead, Jean held him close to her, shyly telling him how much she loved the feeling of him on top of her--how safe and loved she felt.

“Lucien?”

He hummed against her skin in answer.

“Don’t ever use that headache cure on anyone but me.”

Lucien laughed and then he did roll off of her, gathering her into his arms and pulling her flush against his side. Their bodies were slick with sweat and sex and they would need a shower soon, but for now, he was content to simply hold her. 

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, stroking a hand down her back. 

“There could never be anyone but you.”


End file.
